“The mothers?”
“Well,” said Smith, “the twelve who were evacuated from Ideal Maternity are all safe and sound.”
“That’s a blessing anyway, I suppose.”
“Apparently,” Smith said, “a couple of the girls saw nothing wrong with what went on inside the home. God knows what they were used to in their families or on the street. I hate to think about it.”
Remo nodded, once again surprised by the gentility apparent in this man who daily ordered death the way most people order coffee with dessert.
“Those two will unquestionably be forced to put their children up for adoption. Mentally unstable teenagers with no support or families, raising Radcliff’s clones—I shudder to think of what their grown offspring would be like.”
“And the others?”
“They will be giving up the babies for adoption as well, just as planned—except they will be adopted by the government. More tests on the genetic end, and toxicology that sort of thing. We may hang on to them awhile, as a control group. It is difficult to say for certain.”
“You can’t just place them for adoption?”
“Not until it is determined that it is safe,” Smith explained. “You are probably familiar with the great debate on criminal behavior—nature versus nurture. Did abuse make Jeffrey Dahmer what he was, or is the ‘bad seed’ a reality? We cannot take any chances on a deal like this, until we know exactly what it was that Radcliff did and how it pays off down the line. I am not unleashing any new psychopaths on an unsuspecting world, if I can help it”
“All those wasted lives,” said Remo.
“Maybe not. It is still an open question,” Smith reminded him. “Things may work out for some of them, at least.”
“I hate to ask about the process,” Remo said.
“Well, now, that is good news, from my perspective. Looking through the files, I have not found a thing so far that details Radcliff’s work. For all we know, it may be lost.”
“Or maybe not.”
Smith shrugged again. “It is never really possible to prove a negative, of course. We cannot rule out the possibility that someone else has Radcliff’s paperwork—the daughter, maybe, I do not know. She has not satisfied me of her innocence, by any means, but realistically…”
He let the statement trail away, unfinished. Remo saw where Smith was headed with it, and he didn’t like the view.
“Somebody else could start the whole thing over, right? That’s what you’re saying.”
“Theoretically. To start from scratch and follow Radcliff’s method, with the breeders, I suppose we are looking at another twenty years or so before the finished product would be ready. In the meantime, we can try to scrounge around, dig up more information on his work, find out if there is a way to nip it in the bud.”
“Is anybody else left from the old Eugenix crowd?” asked Remo.
“There were several lab assistants and another doctor with the company,” said Smith. “The doctor is dead, unfortunately. He died in a car crash, back in 1986. Too late for us to say if it was really accidental, but the point is moot, anyway. We are looking for the others, but you should not get your hopes up, after thirty years.”
I never do, thought Remo. And he said “I won’t.”
“Anyway,” Smith said, “it is our game now. We will try to make the most of it. Congratulations on another job well done.”
“I don’t feel much like celebrating,” Remo told him.
“No, of course not. But it could be worse, you know. If someone at the Bureau had not checked those fingerprints against the dead file, we would have no idea what Radcliff was pursuing, even now. He would still be out there, breeding new assassins.”
“Right. The good news.”
“Absolutely. In this business,” Smith reminded him, “we sometimes have to take what we can get and hope for the best.”
“You still believe in wishes?” Remo asked.
“Not for us,” Smith answered truthfully. “We do what we do so that others may wish.”
“Like smoking Radcliff.”
“Absolutely. If there is a monster in this mess, I would say he qualifies.”
That much was true, at least, and there was one less monster in the world today, because of CURE and Remo’s efforts. That was something, anyway.
“I’m out of here,” he said, already on his feet and moving toward the office door. “One thing—if you can find a way to keep me posted on the kids, how they make out…”
“I will see what I can do,” Smith said.
By his tone of voice, Remo could tell that the CURE director would be keeping track of the progress of Radcliff’s experimental children.
Quietly Remo left the office.
Chiun had the television on when Remo got back to the condominium they shared. Some kind of odorless broth was on the stove, just simmering. Chiun knew how long. the average meeting took with Smith, and lunch was almost ready now. It would be timed to coincide with the end of the local news and the beginning of another infomercial.
Remo stirred the broth and waited for the editorial segment of the news to begin. Chiun never watched that part of the broadcast. When the editorial started, Chiun got up to join him, fetching bowls and silverware.
“How fares Mad Harold?”
“He’s well,” said Remo, “and he sends felicitations. Little Father.”
Chiun allowed himself a narrow smile. It always pleased him when the men of power and influence acknowledged their indebtedness to him and to Sinanju. All the more so when they paid in gold.
“What is to be done with all the children?”
This was a question Remo had hoped Chiun would not ask. Children were considered sacred in the tiny village of Sinanju. Untouchable. At least to the Master.
“Nobody knows, for sure,” said Remo. “Some of them might be too far gone. The rest may make it. Who knows?”
“You are troubled for them,” said Chiun.
“Not really,” Remo was lying now, and badly.
“You. must bear in mind that they were never meant to be,” the Master of Sinanju said. “The very fact of their existence insults Nature. They are products of an evil man’s demented fantasy.”
“They’re children,” Remo said.
“Created in a laboratory, with a single purpose,” Chiun insisted.
“Like me, you mean.”
The Master of Sinanju stared at Remo for a moment, thoughtfully. When next he spoke, his voice had lost its edge.
“Pah! You are not a product of some demented medical experiment,” Chiun spit. “Although you have a purpose, it is a great one. You are heir to Sinanju.”
“Is what I do so different, Little Father?”
“You compare a blacksmith with a surgeon and ask me to tell the difference?” Chiun allowed himself a small expression of annoyance. “Remo, you sometimes wallow in self-pity as if it were fragrant oil.”
“You’ve got a point. But since we were speaking of ‘demented’ to describe some humans, where’s Grandmother Mulbeny these days? Though she is more like a rattler’s grandmother with me.”
“She, ah, had family problems back home,” Chiun said, “of uncertain outcome yet.”
“And I’m future Reigning Master. Although sometimes I think I still have much to learn.”
“Acknowledging your ignorance is proof of embryonic wisdom,” Chiun replied. “Now, hush! We must eat in front of the television. ‘The Amazing Contraption of Dr. Juice-Matic’ is about to begin.”
“Turn up the volume, will you?” Remo asked. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
About the Authors
Warren Murphy’s books and stories have sold fifty million copies worldwide and won a dozen national awards. He has created a number of book series, including the Trace series and the long-running satiric adventure, The Destroyer.